Fata Morgana

Storm clouds are merely mirage,
pink smears above dark hills,
a yearning wish for precipitation
meant to thaw a cold morning.

We huff along ocean trail,
exhale white exclamations
like two chilly dragons,
fire power extinguished.

Wan sunlight tricks the eye,
spins the illusion of falling rain
over golden slough, mist enclosed
sycamores, rounded top mountains.

Temperature drops; small flakes
flurry among subtle drizzle.
Charged air aches to transform
into a blizzard of wintery showers.